Time
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Where Dustfinger ended up, and what he's done since then. Dasta slash; sixth in my Four Letter Words series.


The man leered at him as he always did, face sly and full of wonder, and Dustfinger flinched.

In the month since he had lost everything, he had traveled far; and one day, stopping briefly in a library (he always checked, for where else could he find who he looked for?), he had recognized a voice. One of _those_ voices, it picked him up on wings of fancy and whisked him away, to a place where words caressed him like tongues of flame once had done, where everything was his and he didn't even exist – another world, altogether.

As if he needed confirmation, a large butterfly appeared in the air in front of him, dancing, hovering in the air; it was pastel, unreal colors: bright reds, blues, greens and yellow, purple even, all clearly divided and not right, but there and _alive_. Dustfinger reached out a hand, and sure enough it landed trustingly, not understanding. He had felt a pang of understanding, of hatred and longing and final, slow-dawning joy.

_He had done it._

In that hour, the time he had waited across the street from the library, he had felt as though he were soaring like the butterfly that never flew far from him; only one moment hurt, and that was a ripping instant when he, grinning, reached for Gwin, made to whistle –

Habit, it was just that, and would stop soon enough. And he could get back now, he'd thought, could get a _new_ one, just a new marten, train it right. Gwin had never been fully domesticated, always biting; if he raised one from a younger age perhaps his fingers wouldn't bleed so often, perhaps it wouldn't matter at all. And there'd be Roxane anyway – he could no longer remember what she looked like, but her voice stayed with him, more beautiful than any Silvertongue's, and he had _found_ one.

Dustfinger's fists clenched, he lit a match and let it burn all the way down and out.

He had never really expected the Silvertongue to know him but he did. The sudden look of _awe_, of complete _adoration_ and shock on that pale face, bowled Dustfinger over. He barely got the words out: "I need something from you."

The melodic voice came, then, enchanting and loving and completely amazed – like a dream had just come true. "You – are you – from…?"

Dustfinger inclined his head slightly, rubbed his fresh-burnt fingers together. "I'm Dustfinger," he said quietly, "And I think you know what I want you to do."

The butterfly, as he proffered it with his other hand, still looked cartoonish and wrong, bright and out of place. He was too dark for this world, too destroyed; that creature was too bright, belonged in a land of innocent children and no concerns. The Silvertongue glanced at it dismissively, clearly not caring. His hand waved it away, and it flew to Dustfinger's shoulder, resting there while the Silvertongue hesitantly touched his fingers to Dustfinger's.

"Yo-you're really here," he murmured, and as the shock left him, a glinting cunning, a sort of jealousy entered his eyes. "Who read you here? When did this happen?"

Dustfinger could have denied the man all knowledge – something in his stomach was already urging him to do just that, to get out of here before that voice stabbed him straight through. But he was no stranger to striking deals with the wicked, and for what he wanted, anything was worth it. Least of all some simple information.

"Ten years," he said, voice still low, and began to walk. Loitering, he had learned, drew even more suspicious looks towards him than he usually got. When he wasn't performing, people in this world tended to hate and distrust him, to clutch children and purses close, and always watch him from the corners of their eyes. It might be his large rucksack, tattered and worn; or his simple clothes, equally worn down. Probably it was his vivid hair, dark expression, and worst of all, those dangerous, marring scars… Basta's handiwork…

"I'm not the only one," Dustfinger went on, his gut lurching as the grown man followed eagerly after him, eyes glinting still like a child's, the sort of child that sliced open birds and sorted through their guts with sticks. "The Magpie, too – she's currently trying to kill me – and Capricorn. He had his men brought out of our world, men and maids to make up his camps, used his own Silvertongue. They're all dead now, but for the old crow."

Fingers reached out towards him, hesitant, almost clutching at his sleeve; feeling sick, Dustfinger walked faster. "A-and Basta," he added, voice catching momentarily. He felt those eyes, those eager eyes eating him alive, running up and down like ants crawling over his skin, devouring him whole. And he felt that knife pressed to his neck, that voice purring to him in the dark, whispering his destruction and holding him close. And the butterfly was on his shoulder, bright against his dark clothing, but already fading, not as hardy as he.

Dustfinger stopped suddenly, whirring around, eyes wild. "That's all you need to know," he said quickly. "I'm not telling you anything more. The man who read me here won't – he can't get me back, and so I need _you _to help me instead, Silvertongue. It seems you already know who I am – where I'm from. Can you do it?"

Greedy eyes glinting, eager for another taste; the man nodded. "Silvertongue… It has a nice ring, to be sure – descriptive, rolls off the tongue – but it's not quite _me_. Do you know the tale of Orpheus?"

Dustfinger shrugged. He slung his pack off his shoulder and reached inside – and the child was back, eager and lost, asking "Is that Gwin? The marten – the horned marten you trained?"

Jolt – lightning through him – emptiness, and that hut, that voice, eyes in the dark, black as night and equally endless – pressure, pulling – pieces missing, taken out and stuffed back in all _wrong_ somehow, and Basta, Basta –

"No." Dustfinger's voice was final, though he knew those eyes of Orpheus were taking him in, could see his shoulders stiffen, fingers shaking. "It's a book."

He handed that faded volume to the man, and watched as the magician himself succumbed to magic, faded into another world briefly. Deft fingers flicked through the pages, stopped at one that was carefully dog-eared; quick, clever eyes read the words of the Wood, of Dustfinger in the forest.

"Take me there," Dustfinger said, and melted into the dawning night like a shadow.

He slept in the forest as always, and hiked back into town the next morning. It would take time, Orpheus said, and he wouldn't do it for free – oh, he didn't _want_ anything, really, he'd reassured, eyes hungry and soft all at once, voice winding ribbons around Dustfinger in the wind – just Dustfinger, that was all. Wanted his stories, his presence, a visit each day and he would finish, could do it soon enough.

So Dustfinger had assented, as they'd both known he would – Orpheus seemed to know him, or at least the Dustfinger he had once been, almost better than the fire-dancer did himself. As the days had passed, he had slowly opened himself, cracked himself wide and vulnerable, risking it all for his heart's desire: airing out old memories, wringing the dust from the Wayless Wood and presenting it through his eyes; the markets of Ombra, the wilderness and creatures that inhabited it, the fire.

The fire; he had put on a display for Orpheus the night before, and shuddered as those endless eyes observed him, glittering. Flinched when that honeyed voice melted the air with soft words of disappointment. Orpheus was the first person not from his world to not be awed by the tricks he now used, and it burnt like a brand of that connection he _should _have.

But in return, he received it all; Dustfinger could barely read, but the words that he slowly, oh-so-slowly traced, seemed to be right, if incomplete so far. Slowly but steadily, he was doing it: selling his soul to return back home, and it was all he'd ever wanted.

The butterfly died the night it arrived, and Orpheus never said a word.

And Basta was creeping up on him, a demon from the hot-remembered South, a wicked wonder made up of lights and sharp, glinting edges, pain at the back of his head and pressing against his lips, _dead_ and _exactly, fire-eater_ and just watching him go, saving him, following him, hunting him down.

Dustfinger might be going crazy, so close and yet so far from his goal. Incomplete without Gwin; ripped open because of Basta; and now dissected every day by Orpheous of the pretty voice and those child's eyes. Dustfinger was the bird, and Basta had sliced him open for Orpheus to inspect, as Gwin waited eagerly to eat, teeth white like old bones.

Yes, he was going insane alright, but there were two things he knew with absolute certainty.

One: He was going home finally; his time was almost up, and he would do _anything_ to just end this story now, to get back into his own.

Two: Basta was coming.

* * *

The butterfly is from _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_. Orpheus was reading aloud to children, so...

Also, I apologize for any lack of truly good Dasta here. I've introduced Orpheus because a) his character always interested me, and b) I'm trying to get some sort of plot going here. As hinted, Basta is coming, and of course the next installment will be from his eyes, which I always find fun. Plus this means Gwin will arrive on-scene, which should make some of you happy.

Thank you for your patience and continued reading.


End file.
